Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium. Or, Saving the Fortunes of the Trouvilles онлайн

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“What’s that?”

Billy’s sudden question drove the ghosts away from Henri’s mind, and both boys ran like deer up the hill to the line of trees.

“There’s no storm over there,” panted Henri. “You can’t see a cloud as big as a man’s hand.”

“That isn’t thunder!” exclaimed Billy. “That’s cannon! They’re shooting at something!”

“There,” cried Henri, “that sounds like fire-crackers now.”

“Rifles,” observed Billy.

“Look!” Billy was pointing to what appeared, at the distance, to be a speck on the face of the moon.

The sound of gunfire increased, report after report—crack, crack, boom, boom, boom.

Across and far above the moonlit plain, arrow-like, sped a winged shadow, growing in size as it swiftly approached.

“An aëroplane!” The boys well knew that kind of a bird. They called its name in one voice.

“That’s what has been drawing the fire of those guns.”

Billy had found the problem easy to solve when he noted the getaway tactics of the coming airman.

The boys could now hear the whirring of the motor. Fifty yards away the aëroplane began to descend. Gracefully it volplaned to the earth under perfect control. It landed safely, rolled a little way, and stopped.